Undone
by abstraction
Summary: Sunlight will break slowly against the glass windows of her life, gold seeping through the rooms of her heart, gradually gilding all she will glean from the minutes which ripple softly against her skin. Spoilers for series 4.


**Undone**  
abstraction

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A day. She will be walking along a sidewalk, trees hovering calmly on either side, and reaching out she will think the air feels so warm and green, with the sun hitting the canopy and the leaves just shining, shining. Her face will tilt upwards and her lashes will slip downwards and there will be erratic jumps of oranges and reds under her delicate eyelids, the light streaming intricate patterns through the patches of sky and pressing themselves into her skin. She will feel the dizzy path of once-fallen leaves, the trajectory and sway of them, feel the color and weight of them from days, hours, seconds ago. They will be small strings of sunlight tugging against her insides, pulling her into possibilities. Her eyes will open, shining like the leaves, but there will be something else, hiding. Waiting.

Night rolls in, a satin dark sliding against the sky, and she will fall asleep against the pressure of cooler, deeper air. Her mind will slip, slip, slip and there will be the autumn press of London rains, grays and blues seeping into everything, pouring through her blood. She will dream of the lull between the tides and the silent sighs of the rains and deep in her arteries an ache will reach out and out and across, touching the abstractions of constellations between them. Her mind will be the bloom upon his misery and it will slowly, slowly call to the muted silver of her satellite, orbiting her consciousness. The rain will continue, and the call will echo. A howl will ring softly against time.

Dawn will glow in her eyes as she wakes, and there will be a slight shift in her axis, a beat in her blood, a pull toward the next minute, minute, minute. In her mind there will be a quietly whirring clock, a silent grind of gears measuring even and heavy, a metronome to something she will not grasp, not right away. She will notice light glancing off her fingers, the molecules tangling rhythmically between her knuckles before flowing in smooth figure eights, a new part of her atmosphere, shining gold. Her heart will be shimmering, pulsing with something foreign and safe, a vibration seeping from her muscles and hitting the still gray air of her room. For a moment a rush will sift through her very being, and there will be somewhere new, new, old, before her eyes, and the beat will turn into a pattern, turn into a hum, and when it clicks, her body strumming with the orchestra of the universe, she will return in a jolt, feeling only her heartbeats lingering in the ether. She will understand, almost.

A week, and then another, and then another, and all the days will be slurring into one another. Like clockwork her life will continue, will be measured and catalogued by the molecules of her blood. And then – something will happen. She will be walking in between the shadows that the cold sun casts down, down, down, through the dry, empty branches of the street, and her heart will stop; stumble; start again. In the endless time between beats her eyes will flush gold, will fill up with the distance of the next moment, and her nerves will bristle, her skin will glisten. The pull will be jarring, her insides ripping with the collision of universes, and the fall will end, eventually. Lashes will slowly open to a sky, clouds broiling on its horizon, and the cold air of the unknown atmosphere will shock her lungs into life. The freeze of the pavement under her back will seep through her clothes and settle in her skin and she will struggle to right herself, sand digging into her palms as she slides her hands against the sidewalk, searching for purchase. Her legs will be shaky, unsteady, and when she finally stands, it will be a full minute before she opens her eyes again. When she does, the world will be bright. She will watch, unsure, of a brown coat disappearing around the corner of a distant building. A sound will be heard, and her soul will tremble with the weight of it, her heart vibrating with its hum. When she takes a step forward, she will fade.

Sand falls through her hourglass with less and less resistance, and she will begin to notice. Sunlight will break slowly against the glass windows of her life, gold seeping through the rooms of her heart, gradually gilding all she will glean from the minutes which ripple softly against her skin. All of her moments will be carefully categorized as preludes or nocturnes, themes weaving themselves into her cells. Each time she is pulled through the fabric of their lives, she will be tangled in the threads less and less. Her insides will rip less and less, the journey barely jarring, and eventually, eventually, she will slide smoothly within the slipstream of space-time. It will shine, brighter than any sun, pulsing in sync with the lightyears they've crossed. She will fade in the afterglow.

She won't understand what triggers them, not exactly, but she will know the pull of them and she will learn to look for him at every corner. She waits, once, at a crowd of people beneath a building, and a woman will speak to her. She won't realize it, but she is close, and when she fades the pendulum of her life against his will swing closer, closer, closer. It won't be long.

A day. She will be staring out of the window of her room and then she will be staring at the window of her old home. The door will open with a slight creak, and she will smile. He will too.


End file.
